Page 50 of Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend (Catching Feelings #1)

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

SEAN

I ’m standing on the edge of the ice, but my head’s a hundred miles away in Mullet Ridge, hoping Kayla is okay.

Hoping she knows she belongs.

Hoping she knows she’s loved.

By me, specifically, but by the town, too.

No matter what happens today, we have a future together, but the “future” part is hanging over both our heads.

No pressure.

I look over the rink, a flawless sheet of pale blue, almost glowing beneath the overhead lights. I inhale, and the sharp chill fills my lungs, sending a surge of adrenaline through me.

And I think of my promise to Kayla: have fun.

I’ve been trying to have fun all week, and honestly, it has felt different. I did a windmill glove save yesterday that wasn’t necessary, but it was just as effective as the tight move I normally would have done.

Hall, Griggs, and the others all whooped, but Otto and Trevor exchanged expressionless looks that made my stomach clench.

But I thought of how Kayla would have jumped to her feet and screamed my name, and I grinned anyway.

I hear the scuff of blades on the rubber mat and turn to see Hall, his eyes still puffy from sleep.

“You’re up early,” I say.

“You’re a bad influence,” he says, fighting off a yawn. “I’m only out here so I can be half the guy you are when I’m your age.”

“That’s nice of you to say.”

He shrugs, and I realize he’s not just blowing steam. He means it.

That matters.

Not as much as if Otto or Trevor were saying it, but it matters.

I pat his back. “Let’s warm up.”

My blade cuts into the fresh ice, smooth and crisp, and the feeling travels up my body like a current of electricity running up a live wire

We start easy—shuffling side-to-side, pushing off slowly, gloves tapping knees as we stretch.

Soon, Hall’s bouncing, practically vibrating with energy, while I feel every bit of the past three weeks in my joints.

My legs are heavy, but my instincts are sharp.

I’m tired, not finished. I still want this.

With a bucket of pucks, we take turns in the crease. When Hall shoots, I stop the puck with a clean blocker deflection to the corner.

“Why do you angle your blocker like that?” he asks.

“I’m not just blocking, I’m steering. When you can control your rebound direction, you control the next play. Try it.”

Hall nods and resets. I slide a puck over, and he drops to butterfly, blocker angled—but the puck pops right back into the slot.

“Try turning your wrist slightly. Keep your elbow tight. Let it ride off the face, not the edge.”

Hall adjusts, nodding again. He goes through the rep a few more times, getting better each time.

“Do you ever think about coaching?” Hall asks, setting up again but letting the puck hit too far up his blocker and bounce high.

“No. Maybe some day.”

“You should think about it. My college coach has been talking about puck placement off the blocker for four years, and I’ve learned it better from you in three weeks.”

I swallow and shoot again. I know he means it as a compliment—and he’s probably right that coaching would be a good fit for me one day—but I’m not ready for that yet. I don’t want that. I don’t want my only influence to be on the bench.

I want to be on the ice.

Hall tries the deflection angle again, and this time, he gets it cleanly—low and wide, directly to the half-wall.

“That was a beaut,” I say.

“Great rebound control,” Trevor says from the bench at center ice. “Nicely done, Hall. Good discipline on the angle.”

I could almost hang my head and sigh.

Of course they come in after I’ve finished working with him and not when I was the one in the crease.

Here I am, holding the door open for him …

I drop my shoulders and lift my head.

And I’m not going to stop.

I think about the windmill save yesterday. The cheers. The way I’ve smiled behind my mask more in the last few days than I have in years.

Mentally, I leave the door propped open for Hall, for Griggs, for anyone who wants in.

But I don’t care how tired and worn out I am.

That door is open for me, too.

I came to play.

Hard.

And hard, it is.

Otto and Trevor split the group into two scrimmage squads and push us through a relentless circuit. They have us run puck transition drills with live pressure and alternating 3-on-2 breakouts, followed by goalie rotation every ten minutes with rapid-fire shots from both wings.

And by mid-morning, I’m exhausted.

“There’s a reason veterans don’t go to training camps,” I mutter to myself at the water cooler.

But Otto chuckles right behind me. “Correct. Seasoned players do better to conserve their strength at the beginning of the season.”

This is the first time Otto has said more than a couple of words to me since camp started. My throat constricts, but I refuse to let my nerves choke the words out of me.

“How do you feel about Hall?” he asks.

It’s not the nerves that will choke me; turns out it’s the disappointment.

“He’s got a ton of promise. He just needs the right coach.”

“I’ve seen that. He’s done better under you than I think he would under me.”

“I’m not looking to coach, Otto,” I say, my heart hitting my ribs harder than any puck. “I didn’t come here to mentor my replacement.”

“No,” he says with a laugh. “But you can’t help it, can you? It’s who you are.”

He tosses his water bottle into the bin and nods once, then shoulders past me, returning to the ice.

Leaving me behind.

I give myself a shake and follow him out onto the ice.

I’m not going down without a fight.

A whistle blows, and I look up at the clock to see that it’s noon.

Back in Mullet Ridge, the town council meeting is probably over. My stomach twists with worry. During the lunch break, I check my phone, but she hasn’t texted. I try to call her, but it goes straight to voicemail.

I call Fletch and Red, but they don’t answer. Neither do my parents.

Is the meeting still going on? Did the entire town turn off their phones for this stupid thing? Just vote for Kayla and call me back, people!

“Get your head in the game,” Trevor snaps at me when I miss two low-slot poke checks in a row.

Frustration burns my cheeks, a contrast to the icy helplessness in my chest when I think of Kayla.

The heat and chill collide like a stalled storm system inside me. All pressure, no release. But the real danger isn’t the downpour.

It’s the storm dying before it gets the chance to start.

I’m running on fumes during afternoon scrimmage.

My final NHL scrimmage.

Every time I drop to butterfly, my knees scream in protest. Every time I push post-to-post, my thighs catch fire.

Pucks fly like hornets—sharp, fast, relentless—and slowly, the fun that’s been leaking out all morning drips its last drop.

And I’m out.

Hall, meanwhile, is the best he’s been yet.

Three weeks of intense coaching has only sharpened his skillset.

He’s been open, humble, and hungry, and it shows.

He’s like a rechargeable battery, whereas I’m a battery that’s been left out in the rain.

Corrosion’s starting to show, white crust and everything.

Maybe it’s time to accept it.

I gave it my all—I really did. I’ve put everything into this camp, especially over the last week.

And you know what?

That’s okay.

For years, hockey has felt like an unattainable dream. One that I couldn’t let myself even dwell on.

But I have a better dream now. I have a woman I love, a partner I’d take over any team.

It’s okay. As long as I have Kayla, it’ll all be okay.

I just wish I didn’t have to tell her this, that my time in hockey is finally done, in spite of everything. She’ll support me either way—I know that—but I know her heart will hurt for me.

It’s one of the reasons I love her so much.

I rotate out, watching Hall glide post-to-post like he’s fresh off a bye week, sharp and weightless.

Those ten minutes go too fast, and I’m up again before I can catch my breath.

I skate over to the crease, and for a moment, I’m back in the playoffs again, shutting out all sensation, focusing on nothing but holding my post, being what they need me to be?—

No.

I promised Kayla I wouldn’t go out like that.

But how am I supposed to have fun when I’m exhausted? When the effort to be here for everyone else has taken its toll?

Hall slaps my pads as we pass. “You got this, Coach,” he says.

Griggs and the other guys whack their sticks to the ground—a show of respect that tells me they know this is my last scrimmage and they’re classy enough to honor that.

I appreciate their support, but it bounces off me like a puck from the edge of the crease. It can’t get past my pads.

Nothing can.

I’m a wall.

But then someone screams my last name, and I’m pulled back into the playoffs again, except this time, I’m talking to that reporter. The one who asks if I have a girl waiting at home for me.

“No,” I told her. “I’m not the guy a girl waits at home for. I’m the guy who waits at home for the girl.”

And I will be.

Because I know Kayla will wait for me right back.

“O’SHANNAN!” a voice screams again, and this time, it pulls me out of my memory.

That came from inside the arena.

More and more of them now.

They’re coming from the stands …

Cheers. Chants.

I glance toward the bleachers, thinking I’m losing it.

But I’m not.

There she is.

Kayla.

Kayla wearing my Arsenal jersey over leggings, face painted like it’s Game Seven of the Cup, holding a pom-pom in one hand, a giant foam finger in the other, and the biggest smile I’ve ever seen.

And she’s not alone.

At least a hundred people are packed into the bleachers.

Her family is here, wearing custom O’Shannan Arsenal jerseys.

My Blue Collars teammates have their shirts off with the letters of my name painted on their bellies.

Lucas and Logan are waving giant “O’Shannan Forever” signs, along with half of their team.

Miss Eunice and Miss Loretta are holding a homemade banner that says “Oh Captain, My Captain!”

Scottie and Clementine are blasting airhorns.

My mom is screaming. My dad is clapping. Fletch is chuckling and shaking his head, probably fighting a stab of envy, but he’s here, all the same.

But no one is louder or brighter than Kayla.

“THAT’S MY HUSBAND!” she yells. “Show ‘em what you’re made of, Cap!”

And they all cheer.

All of them.

For me.

I drop to one knee in the crease. Everything I’ve been holding together—pressure, fear, doubt—they all fracture like thin ice beneath a skate.

The pads I’ve kept guarding my heart fall to the ground, and I grin as Griggs and the others start their onslaught. Pucks fly at me like missiles, but I block every one, laughing behind my mask, light on my feet like it’s the first day of camp after a long summer.

Because she came.

They all came.

For me.